


perchance to dream

by balquida



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Character Study, Dream Sex, Frottage, Guilt, M/M, kingston brown did not want a soulmate au but he got one anyway, lapses in judgement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:27:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29800863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/balquida/pseuds/balquida
Summary: --and Kingston can never not think of his city, what kind of danger he might be putting his people in if the Vox Phantasma and the Vox Populi were to fall together only to fall apart again. It’s the first time in history that this has happened. They can’t screw it up.But God, he wants to. Hewants.
Relationships: Kingston Brown/Pete Conlan | Pete the Plug
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	perchance to dream

**Author's Note:**

> because writing porn of other people's d&d characters is apparently where i'm at now. this is 60% a pwp, 40% a character study, and 100% a mess. enjoy!

These days, when Kingston needs to get to Nod, he takes the train. The Metro Card that Pete gave him has secured a firm place in his wallet, free of the mess of coffee cards and gift vouchers that lurk in the back pocket, and when he takes it out at the Lorimer Street station, the purple carriage comes thundering along the tracks a moment later. It’s not often that he takes the trip of his own volition, goes solo -- the dream realm is always polite, but never quite welcoming, and he gives it a wide berth in turn. So waking up in Nod, fully aware of where he is but with no memory of how he got there, is a surprise.

He must actually be asleep, then. Since making up with Pete, his dreams have been calm, and though he can remember them, he doesn’t often dwell. Not his job. This one seems to be heading in a similar direction, if his surroundings are anything to judge by. He’s in his apartment, or at least  _ this _ version of his apartment, here on the other side of the looking-glass. The comforter floats right off him when he kicks it away to step out of bed, drifts up towards the ceiling, and he studies it for a moment before making his way out of his room and down the stairs.

(So the  _ blanket _ can fly, but he can’t? That’s some bullshit.)

He checks each room as he passes. The coffee maker is letting out thick teal steam in the kitchen, there’s a song he doesn’t recognise playing from the turntable, and none of it matters, because Pete is there. Pete is  _ in _ his dream, he’s standing in front of Kingston’s couch wearing an easy grin, hip cocked, looking more at home than Kingston has ever seen him in the waking world. Something in Kingston’s gut gives a tug, seeing the slant of his mouth, and it’s an effort to keep his eyes from trailing down to the wispy happy trail that disappears into his pants. God, he wishes Pete would wear a shirt. He rounds the couch to stand in front of Pete, clearing his throat, focusing on the vague annoyance churning in his hindbrain. Fine. If  _ this _ is how the kid wants to take his new powers for a joyride, then Kingston’s sure as shit going to have something to say about it. 

“You really got nowhere else to be, Pete?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow. He gets it, he does, he knows Pete’s running low on friendly faces, but Kingston values his privacy, and Pete’s got eighteen million perfect strangers to choose from.

Pete’s smile doesn’t waver. “You invited me, man. You said you needed help with something.”

Kingston splutters, leaning back a little; that wasn’t the answer he’d expected. His annoyance skids sideways into confusion as he squints at Pete, trying to remember the conversation they’d had that he’s apparently forgotten, any problem he’d voiced that would’ve made Pete feel entitled to show up unannounced in his dream, and coming up empty-handed. That smile Pete’s still got going is making it hard to think. Then again, Pete always makes him feel like this when he’s around. Not  _ bad _ , per se, but… unbalanced. Off his game, on the back foot. Being in Nod is turning it up to eleven, somehow, because Kingston can’t seem to get a goddamn thought together with the other Vox staring straight at him like this.

“Wh-- Pete, I appreciate the offer, but what problem do  _ I _ have that you need to help me with?”

“That,” Pete replies, jerking his chin down. Kingston follows his gaze, down his own body, down to-- shit--

Kingston’s  _ hard. _

He doesn’t know how the hell he missed that before, but now he has, it’s all he can think about. Fuck, he’s properly hard, leagues beyond the occasional morning wood he still wakes up with, dick throbbing in his sweats. Vaguely, he wants to speak, swear or apologise or tell Pete to get the hell out of his house or  _ something _ , but all he manages is a weak wheeze of breath as he sinks down onto the couch behind him. If Pete weren’t here, he’d already have a hand down his pants to deal with this, but as it is, his hand only twitches with the urge. Pete’s still staring.

In fact, Pete’s doing the opposite of leaving. His grin curls up, goes honey-soft at the edges, and he moves towards Kingston, straddling him with a knee on the couch cushions either side. God but he’s warm. He can feel the heat of their magic sparking between them, even through the layers of cotton and denim covering their thighs, and when Pete reaches forward to slip a hand under Kingston’s thin sleep shirt, a whole New Year's Eve’s worth of purple-gold fireworks go off behind his eyes. Kingston gasps, ragged, and the skin contact is enough of a shock to the system that something snaps into place in his mind. His hand flies up to circle Pete’s wrist, stopping it from moving up (or down), and finally, he can string together a sentence.

“Pete,” he croaks. “We can’t.”

Pete cocks his head. “Because we shouldn’t, or because you don’t want to?”

Little shit. There’s a list as long as his arm of reasons that this is a bad idea. Pete’s half his age, for one, a fact that gnaws at Kingston when he’s alone with his thoughts. There’s Liz, too, and Kingston can never not think of his city, what kind of danger he might be putting his people in if the Vox Phantasma and the Vox Populi were to fall together only to fall apart again. It’s the first time in history that this has happened. They can’t screw it up.

But God, he wants to. He  _ wants. _

His hesitation is answer enough for Pete, who moves both his hands to the back of the couch, grips it and pulls himself closer to Kingston. He rolls his hips forward, determined, and Kingston chokes on a moan as his hands flex by his sides again. Pete answers with a murmur of his own, still moving. Kingston’s forgotten all about touching his own cock, Pete’s got that base covered, and now all he can think of is putting his hands on Pete’s body, feeling the flex and pull of his thighs as he grinds down over and over against Kingston’s dick, dirty and sweet. The rough feel of Pete’s jeans is almost too much, even through both their layers of clothes, and he wants to shove Pete down and pull them off his skinny hips, strip him bare, give him something to really fuck himself against. His hands stay where they are.

If he touches -- if he lets himself touch -- then dream or not, this will be far too real. Kingston’s got regrets already, a lifetime of them. Pete’s still getting there. Kingston doesn’t want to become one of his. 

But he’s only human, and there’s no way he can stop himself rolling his hips to meet Pete’s and grind up against him. It’s restrained, but Pete cries out, head lolling forward so he can feel his breath on his face. Pete must be hard as well, the way he’s shoving forward at such a specific angle, so insistent. Kingston can see his muscles jumping when he hits just the right spot, losing his rhythm as the pleasure overwhelms him. Jesus, he feels like a teenager, hasn’t  _ done _ this since he was a teenager, desperately horny and half-terrified someone would walk in but too turned on to stop.

Pete hitches himself even further up, the seam of his pants rubbing snug up against the head of Kingston’s trapped dick, and Kingston’s eyes damn near roll back in his head. He’s not on the verge of coming just yet, he’s not  _ that _ far gone, but it’s not out of the question if Pete keeps this up. If anything, Pete’s getting even more focused, panting like a dog, working himself up and down Kingston’s dick like it’s the last thing he’s ever going to do. It’s overwhelming, and he’s ashamed enough as it is; he’s not going to add insult to injury by coming in his sweats. 

“Pete,” he grits out, tipping his head back so he won’t be tempted to do anything stupid, like kiss him. “Pete, you gotta-- I--”

Like magic, Pete’s off him. Kingston could cry with the loss of it, but he’s too busy gasping for air, still so hard it hurts. It takes a minute to un-puddle his brain, but he gets there eventually, reasoning to himself as he stares at the ceiling that he’ll just have to jerk himself off in the morning and do his best to forget any of this ever happened. Trouble is,  _ Pete’s still fucking there _ . He can feel the weight of his knees still on the couch, either side of him, and Kingston’s magic twists and spirals at the proximity between them. It’s a wonder he hasn’t ripped holes in the cushions. 

“I don’t--”

“It’s okay,” Pete cuts him off, soothing and somehow not winded. “Don’t worry about it. Lemme take care of you.”

And then he goes to his knees in front of the couch, and Kingston squeezes his eyes shut and lets loose a string of curses that’d make a sinner cry.

How long has it been since Kingston’s let anyone take care of him? The thought alone is enough to make him want to laugh, distracted only by the feel of Pete’s nimble fingers hooking in the waistband of his sweats. There’s been almost no one since Liz. He’s gone on a few first dates, patiently fielded Misty’s flirting, and taken care of his own needs when he’s found the time. Nothing like this. He doesn’t know if he even has words for what this is.

Pete tugs on his sweats again, asking a question, and Kingston answers helplessly, lifting his hips up to give him an easier time pulling them off. He hisses as they drag down his shaft, and he can feel his dick bounce as it’s freed from the fabric, so hard it’s not even resting against his stomach. Pete looks like he’s just won the lottery, hands sliding up Kingston’s thighs through the sparse silvery hair, one stopping just short of the crease between leg and hip and the other finally ( _ finally _ ) curling around the base of his dick. Kingston can’t believe he’s letting Pete touch him with that stupid ink on his hands, but he’s not too proud to realise that that ship has sailed. Pete’s touch alone is enough to make the tip of his cock bead up with precome, and Pete hums, leans forward to lick it off. 

“Pete,” he says again, a warning, a plea. It’s all Pete needs to hear. His eyelids drop to half-mast, and he goes for it, ducking down and enveloping the head of Kingston’s dick in the velvety heat of his mouth. Kingston shouts, relief coursing through him, and he  _ prays _ for the restraint he needs to not just sink a hand into Pete’s hair and shove himself down his throat. Not that he needs to, as it turns out. Pete’s not here to play coy.

Kingston gets the sense that Pete maybe hasn’t done this a whole lot, at least not sober, but it’s hardly getting in his way. He might not be practiced, but he’s eager enough to make up for it, sucking fast and sloppy and curling his tongue around as much of the shaft as he can manage every time he pulls up. It’s so,  _ so _ good. Kingston still can’t let himself touch, but he’ll let himself look, guilt be damned. Pete looks all but blissful down there on his knees, eyelashes fluttering, lips wet and red already. He’s making a fucking mess of them both, knuckles shiny with spit, but it only makes the slide easier. He glances up to meet Kingston’s eyes as he hollows his cheeks, sinks down as far as he can go, and Kingston mutters “shit, Pete” under his breath. This is going to kill him.

Pete pushes himself down again and goes a little farther than he can manage -- he chokes, but doesn’t pull off, just far back enough that he can take a few breaths through his nose. “You can use your hand,” Kingston murmurs, and talking about it feels like yet another broken boundary, but he’d rather not watch Pete suffocate down there. Pete goes  _ mmm! _ like he’s only just remembered his hand exists, which would have been funny if Kingston wasn’t so preoccupied with the feeling of Pete humming around his dick, Jesus Christ. Pete goes right back to work, slick noises filling the air as he bobs his head and works his hand around the base at the same time. It’s fucking obscene, and it’s working. The orgasm that was lurking around the corner earlier is barrelling towards Kingston like a freight train now, and Kingston’s chest is heaving, but by some miracle he manages a few broken words of caution -- “Pete, ‘m gonna-- fuck--  _ fuck _ !”

His whole body snaps taut like a string being turned into tune, and he  _ howls _ . He’s had good orgasms before, jerk-off-to-the-memory good orgasms, but this is otherworldly. It’s their magic -- it must be. It’s the only explanation he has for the pleasure that rockets through his every nerve, every cord of muscle and strand of hair, right down to the bone, pure goddamn rapture threatening to take him apart at the seams. He comes for what feels like hours, aftershocks wringing him dry, and when he opens his eyes again, everything around him is touched by a golden haze. Pete swallowed all of it, and he gives Kingston one last, soft little lick before he pulls off, because of course he does. Kid’s a showoff when he’s not overthinking every move.

“Fuck,” says Kingston, just because he feels like ne needs to one more time for good measure. Now the fog of afterglow is fading, it’s harder with each passing second not to feel like a creepy old man, panting with his dick out on the couch. God, should he reciprocate before telling Pete that this can never happen again? Guilt sweeps through Kinsgton, and he wriggles his pants back up his body, hiding the evidence.

Pete, to his credit, doesn’t push. Pete only says “‘m glad you liked it,” and the rasp of his voice makes Kinston wince.

“Look, Pete,” he sighs, the start of he doesn’t know what -- an apology, a reprimand, a confession. It turns out to be none of the above. When he looks up, Pete is already gone.

\--

Kingston wakes up with a mess in his sweats and an even bigger mess in his head. The post-climax looseness from last night is a distant memory -- every part of him feels stiff, and moving seems like a Herculean effort. That’s the excuse he gives himself to stay in bed an extra half hour, and even longer in the shower, getting ready as slow as he can to avoid what’s waiting for him in the kitchen. There’s no use, not in the end. By some curse or miracle, his schedule is clear today. Nowhere he needs to be, no convenient excuse to slip out the door and put off this conversation a minute longer. Probably for the best. The sooner he bites this bullet, the better.

This time, they’re both awake. Small mercies. The art on the walls is familiar, the letters on the books are all the right way up, and the coffee just smells like coffee. None of it matters, because Pete is still here. Kingston’s gut clenches at the sight of him, cupping his mug, bleary eyes and bad posture replacing his inhuman grace from Nod. Kingston wasn’t blameless for what happened, far from it, but there was a line in the sand that Pete eviscerated last night when he showed up in Kingston’s dream. He should’ve been the adult. He wasn’t, and that’s his cross to bear, but he can make up for it by starting now.

When Pete sees him, he opens his mouth, but Kingston rolls right over top. Clean the cut early. “I get it,” he starts, holding his hands up. Pete’s mouth snaps shut. “Having this new power, and trying to figure it all out, wanting to test the limits. Pete, I get it. But there are things we  _ can’t do _ . I need you to understand that. What you did last night-- do you understand what I’m saying? Do you know how far past  _ ‘okay’ _ that was?”

Pete stares at him for all of three seconds before shoving his face into his hands and crumpling like a tin can, whining guiltily. Kingston blinks. That was easy. He’d had a whole speech planned.

“I know! I know, God, it’s fucked up, but I can’t help it, like -- I’m over her when I’m awake, but not when I’m asleep, you know? She’s-- dude, if you saw it, it’s so fucking dumb, she’s so self-absorbed she dreams about her own art show!”

What.

“It’s not even-- it’s like following her on Instagram, you know, it’s not like I’m stalking her, it’s like seeing one specific part of her life that only tells you a part of what’s actually going on! She doesn’t even know I’m there, obviously I never talk to her, uh, not after that one time, she like never sees me. I swear I’m over her.”

_ What. _

Softly, with great feeling, Kingston says, “Motherfucker.”

Pete wasn’t in his dream last night. He was in Priya goddamn Danger’s. Kingston’s dream was all his own.

“...Kingston? Do you need, like, help?”

Does he ever.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! find me on tumblr at [voxedphantasma](https://voxedphantasma.tumblr.com/) i do art too
> 
> any feedback would be incredibly appreciated, comments or kudos or otherwise -- i'd love to know i'm not just shouting into the void over these two!


End file.
